In Naples, there are two things we proudly claim to do better than the rest of the world: pizza and coffee. Okay, to be honest, we actually claim at least a hundred other things: Neapolitans aren’t exactly known for their modesty. But if we have to focus on the aspects of our food culture that we share with the rest of the world, and that are deeply tied to our identity, those are precisely pizza and coffee. And they both suck.
Okay, hold on. That was a bit of a bombshell, but I had to keep you glued to this page somehow. Let’s start by saying this: no, pizza in Naples is still good, actually excellent in many pizzerias. Let’s just say that overall, compared to the rest of Italy and the world, it has fallen a little behind. And that’s a paradox, considering that many of today’s innovations in pizza started right here. But you know, we Neapolitans tend to be very traditionalists.
Coffee, on the other hand, we really don’t know how to make it. And it’s the Neapolitans themselves who confirm this, day after day. Not explicitly, nor consciously, but through their actions. It’s rare to find a purist Neapolitan who doesn’t add sugar to their coffee to counteract its extreme bitterness. Not to mention the proverbial pride of drinking coffee with the famous “three Cs”: “Comm’ Cazz’ Coce”: “this coffee is damn hot”, not only because of the quick extraction, but also because of the habit of serving it in a scalding hot cup (a gesture, actually, of respect from a barista who cares). So it seems that a pleasurable break is often accompanied by negative emotions.
Some might say these habits aren’t just Neapolitan, but Italian. And it’s true: espresso, after all, was born in the north, in Savoyard Piedmont, and the habit of drinking dark, bitter coffee was imported from our Austrian neighbors. But in Naples, a city of extremes, we pushed the roasting even further: from dark to practically burnt. And we marketed it as our trademark. We managed to convince the entire Italian population that Neapolitan coffee – blacker, stronger, more intense – is the best coffee in the world.
But it’s not true. And fortunately, not all roasters in Naples think this way. Naples is full of them. Actually, to be precise, I should say the province of Naples. Strange as it may seem, all the most well-known coffee companies in the Neapolitan area are not based in the city proper, but in its province. Passalacqua, the most appreciated Arabica brand – rare in the rest of Italy but hugely popular in Neapolitan pizzerias abroad – is in Casavatore. Caffè Borbone, ever-present in the pod sector, is in Caivano. And even Kimbo, that multinational giant, has its plant in Melito.
To these, we add a myriad of small local brands scattered throughout Campania. Lately, it’s become almost a game for me to notice the coffee brands displayed outside bars, and look them up on Instagram and Google to see how they communicate and where they’re located. I’m fascinated that not the entire market is dominated by the big brands (other major local players include Toraldo, Moreno, Kenon), but there are small roasters with a solid local market, doing less mass-produced and more careful work, focusing on direct relationships with more demanding customers and perhaps also on exports abroad. All located outside Naples.
And so I go, from bar to bar, from coffee to coffee. Until I come across a cup with a vintage but appealing logo. Two simple colors, yellow and green, soft and retro. A depiction of the South American continent and an evocative name: Caffè Quito. As always, I look them up online, and I notice they have their plant in Fuorigrotta, a neighborhood of Naples. In the city, then.
I don’t know why, maybe it’s the good mood from the caffeine, but I decide to contact them. Via Instagram. I ask if I can visit their roastery. And I don’t introduce myself as a journalist, a blogger, or anything. Just as a simple enthusiast. They reply within a couple of days. The conversation moves a bit slowly, a sign that the Instagram profile isn’t managed by an active social media manager. But they invite me with great pleasure. I suggest a day, but they’re busy. They propose another, but I’m out of town. I make another suggestion, and they tell me:
“That day we’re busy with deliveries. We want you to come when the roasting is happening.”
In short, maximum availability for a stranger who, after all, is taking time away from their work. I’m thrilled: I can already smell the family business before I even arrive. Finally, we agree on a day, and I set off on the journey.
You wouldn’t find the roastery easily without Google Maps. Fuorigrotta is a large, very residential neighborhood: here you’ll also find the Maradona stadium and RAI’s Naples headquarters. But they’re located on a small side street off a road that isn’t exactly busy. Even when the navigator says I’ve arrived, I don’t understand where I am. I call. “I’ll come get you outside.”
It’s Alessia De Martino who welcomes me, the new owner of Caffè Quito. New, because she recently inherited the business from her father, who had passed away a few months before my visit. My expectations were right: a family business. Alessia handles almost everything (she was the one writing to me on Instagram). The roastery is nothing more than a single large warehouse, with storage on one side, a small office on the other, and the enormous room with the roasting machine, the jute sacks, and the tanks holding beans from various Latin American countries.
Alessia tells me her father’s story. There aren’t any particular anecdotes to recall: like many family business stories, it starts with one person pouring heart and hard work into a venture and dedicating the rest of their life to it. And Alessia is the classic example of the second generation: someone who studied, traveled, but was ultimately drawn back by the enthusiasm of her father’s love for his work, returning home with her own experience and knowledge to take up the torch.
It’s with that same enthusiasm and passion that she tells me about her work, shows me the beans, lets me watch the roaster in action (operated by Giuseppe, a young man hired back in her father’s day who learned the trade right there on site). Filial love and love for the business blend and multiply, and I can’t help but feel the pride in every single word that comes out of Alessia’s mouth.
Especially when she tells me about their customers. As I said, these small businesses generally have a direct relationship with those who buy their products. And Alessia tells me about groups of Japanese people who make a pilgrimage specifically to savor their coffee. I’m not surprised, given the attention to quality and detail they have in that country, especially when it comes to Neapolitan pizzerias: everything in Japan must be reproduced to the millimeter, faithful to the motherland. Not just the pizza, but the coffee too must be imbued with the flavors and knowledge of Naples.
Here, though, we are far from the excesses I mentioned at the beginning. Sure, the roast is still a bit darker than Italian standards. But it’s not black, not burnt, not the complete flattening of bean varieties just to sell them all together. Alessia puts me through a tour de force of tastings, which I gladly accept: the flavors, the acidity, the textures are all distinguishable from one another. No, we’re not being pretentious with the sommelier vocabulary venturing into notes of hazelnut and red fruits. But it’s clear that here, the raw materials are respected and preserved. We’re not talking about specialty coffee; we’re simply talking about quality.
And it’s a quality that doesn’t go unnoticed. Because among Alessia’s clients, there’s one very special one. And this is where the serendipity comes in. Alessia doesn’t even know I’m a pizza enthusiast; I didn’t write to her from my blog’s Instagram profile. So she casually mentions that one of her clients is none other than Franco Pepe.
A light bulb goes off in my head. I remember all the times I’ve been to Pepe in Grani and ended the evening properly with a coffee. A not-insignificant detail, because as a rule, I usually refuse to drink coffee in a pizzeria, knowing they don’t give it the right attention. But out of habit, I photograph every single course to remember it by: I dig through my old photos, and sure enough, twice I had coffee at the famous Caiazzo pizzeria. And there they are, beautiful, the cups with the logo (in the older version, without the little “paddle” making the Q’s leg).
I really love the rounded Neapolitan-style cups, and before I can say so, Alessia gives me one as a gift. Accompanied by another high-quality gift: a nice package of their Robusta blend. She had me taste some excellent Arabicas, but I preferred the Robusta for its “tastes of home”—the ones that accompany you to your trusted local bar when you have coffee at the counter, or at home when you brew your moka pot to start the day. A reassuring companion.
That so many bars in Naples don’t know how to make coffee is true. But to lump everyone together is wrong. It’s just like pizza: many small artisans work with both simplicity and care, people who have carried on this trade for forty years, just like Alessia and her family’s roastery. And their work is scattered all over the Neapolitan territory. That’s why pizza and coffee go hand in hand as an integral part of our food culture. I lied: they don’t suck. That was calculated provocation, meant to lead you where I wanted: to read the story of a wonderful case of serendipity.
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This is an AI-assisted translation of the original Italian article, which I have lightly edited. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes!
